Of Dreams and Nightmares
by pgrabia
Summary: House suffers a rude awakening when Wilson checks on him the day after the crane disaster.  Set part way through episode 7x1 and quickly turns AU.  Spoilers for eps up to and including 7x1.  H/W preslash with W/S and mention of H/Cu.  Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****Of Dreams and Nightmares**

**Author: ****pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: ** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved. Quote is from Rogers and Hammerstein's _The Sound of Music_.

**Genre(s): **AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sick!House, Pre-Slash, Romance

**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, S. Carr/ House/Wilson preslash, mention of House/Cuddy and Wilson/Sam

**Word Count: **5952

**Warnings: **Spoilers for all Seasons and episodes up to Season 7 episode 1.

**Rating: ****R (M)**

**Author's Notes:** A response to episode 7X1. It begins just after Wilson tries to break into House's apartment and House catches him. This will be a two-shot.

**(~*~)**

"But…shit, Wilson!" House protested when he saw the look of unadulterated worry on his best friend's face. "She's hiding. That's what she's doing. She's nervous about us being discovered."

The pajamas and robe clad diagnostician crossed his bedroom and headed for the closet. He was determined to convince his best friend, who he'd caught breaking into his apartment through the kitchen window when said friend got himself stuck halfway through, that he hadn't been hallucinating once again of having had spent a night of passion in the arms of his boss, Lisa Cuddy. House knew he hadn't been. Cuddy had come the night before and stopped him from taking the Vicodin he'd hidden behind his bathroom mirror. He remembered it clear as day. Since he hadn't taken the opiates to ease the intense pain in his leg from crawling around in rubble all day and being verbally emasculated by the woman who later had become his savior, he couldn't have hallucinated making love to her, calling in sick for both of them so they could spend the day alone together.

"House, please don't do this—" Wilson began, and the expression House saw on his face when he glanced back over his shoulder was one of concern, as if the oncologist feared his friend was going to make a fool of himself and wanted to prevent him from doing so.

Ignoring his protest House pulled open the folding closet doors with a flourish, a smile of victory on his face as he stepped back without looking so the younger man could have full view of Cuddy huddled within. Only, Wilson didn't suddenly become sheepish and apologetic. Instead his friend closed his eyes in grief and lowered his head. Wilson's left hand rose to rub the back of his neck habitually. House felt a tendril of anxiety begin to wrap itself around his heart. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to look within the closet. Cuddy stared back at him, as beautiful as ever, and winked a seductive blue-grey eye at him.

"See!" House said in irritation, turning on Wilson. "I told you! I suppose you're going to tell me there's no one there!"

Wilson lifted his head and opened his eyes to meet House's gaze. They were shiny with tears that he was trying valiantly to blink back. He regarded House with the same sad expression he'd had the day he'd watched House enter the doors of Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital a year before. He shook his head and sighed.

"House," he said almost apologetically, his voice thick with emotion, "There's nothing in there but clothes and shoes. Cuddy's not there. She never was here."

The single tendril was joined by several others, causing House's heart to stop beating out of fear. No. This was a joke, he told himself, unwilling to accept what Wilson was implying. She was there! He'd just seen her with his own two eyes—!

He looked inside the closet again, and she was gone. House felt his knees give out from underneath him and he fell to the floor, one hand still holding onto the knob on the closet door. His face fell and his eyes widened with the realization that Wilson had been right and he had been wrong. He was delusional and hallucinating again, and that only meant one thing….

House started when he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder and realized that Wilson had closed the distance between them without his noticing. The younger man crouched next to him, his soft brown eyes holding an expression in them House hadn't seen in them regarding him for a long time: compassion. The diagnostician stared back at Wilson with haunted blue eyes, not even attempting to hide his fear and disappointment from him.

"It's okay," the younger man murmured gently. "It's going to be okay, House."

"But," House responded, finding it incredibly difficult to speak, "I didn't take the Vicodin, Wilson. I swear!"

"House, your pupils are pin heads and bloodshot," Wilson told him softly. "I can hear your breathing. Right now it should be quick and deep, almost hyperventilating. Instead, it's slow and shallow. Your face is flushed. Those are all symptoms of opiate use. I'm not going to lecture you or condemn you, but I can't help you until you face the truth."

Unable to meet Wilson's eyes any longer, House looked away from him, trying to figure out how this could have happened. Was it true? Had he taken the Vicodin and forgotten about it? Were his incredible night with Cuddy and her confession of love to him all creations of a sick mind? Had he failed in his effort to stay clean and prove to himself and others that he could beat the darkness of his past? Had the past year of struggle and pain been for naught?

"No!" House growled suddenly, rising to his feet fueled by adrenalin. His legs were so tired that he could barely stand but fortunately the endorphins from the lovemaking were helping ease his pain. He had to prove to Wilson that he wasn't delusional. Somehow Cuddy had managed to sneak out unnoticed by neither of them, that was why she hadn't appeared to set the matter straight. It had happened, damn it! She had been there! She'd left Lucas for him and had told him that she loved him! They'd made love! It had been real! He limped, cane-less, to the bathroom, unwilling to be deterred.

"House!" Wilson called after him, following him. "It's okay! Like I told you, it's not unusual for addicts to have slips. It'll be okay—"

"I'm not crazy!" the diagnostician screamed at him over his shoulder. "I didn't slip!"

House reached the bathroom and stopped short. His body began to tremble uncontrollably. Two amber vials were on the floor, one capped and standing upright, the second without a lid on its side with little oblong white pills spilled out onto the tile. The bathtub was still filled with shards of the broken mirror. This was impossible. Wilson was playing some kind of malicious joke on him. Desperate to show that he hadn't taken any, House dropped to his left knee and then sprawled out onto the floor next to the vials. He set to pouring the pills in the open vial out onto the floor and counting them. Wilson stood in the doorway, leaning wearily again the jamb, appearing to be sick to his stomach.

"There were ninety in here," House told him rapidly as his fingers counted them off. "It was a full bottle. I'll prove to you that I didn't take them. There should be twenty-eight here and the other two are somewhere on the floor in here where I dropped them!"

"House," Wilson said softly, sadly.

"Shut up, Wilson!" the older man snapped. "I'm trying to fucking count here!" He continued to whisper out the count. "Twenty four, twenty—" There was only one more pill to make twenty-five. Five pills were missing. That was impossible! They must have been kicked somewhere at some point while he and Cuddy were kissing, moving for the bedroom. He began to search the floor desperately for the five missing pills. They had to be there somewhere, but the white tiles were camouflaging them! He scoured every square inch of floor in the bathroom, all the while telling Wilson over and over again that they were here, and he would find them.

But he couldn't. It was impossible for them to have just disappeared but…but that's what had to have happened.

"House," Wilson said again patiently, "if Cuddy was here, why isn't there any evidence of it? Her car wasn't outside when I pulled up. You crawled through rubble for hours yesterday—how is it possible that you're even able to walk with your bad leg?"

_No, no, no, no_! House screamed to himself and then began to mumble out loud. "No, no, no,no! I didn't take any Wilson!" He turned to look up at the younger man with panicked eyes that shed tears unwittingly. "There has to be a logical explanation!"

Wilson stepped into the bathroom and knelt next to him, grabbing both of House's forearms gently but firmly. "There is a logical explanation…."

House was shaking his head no, blue eyes pleading with brown. He couldn't speak.

"…And that explanation is that you hallucinated Cuddy again…." Wilson continued unabated.

"No," House began to whisper repetitively.

"…because you took those Vicodin," the oncologist said sadly. "You had to have been in so much pain, House. Foreman told me what had happened, how you could barely walk after you got out of the ambulance without your cane."

"No…."

"How distraught you were with your patient's death," Wilson told him without skipping a beat. "That combined with the fact that you must have felt isolated and alone, in part because of the way I've been treating you lately, it was only natural you sought out relief the only way you knew how. It's okay. I understand. I don't blame you. I should have checked up on you, but Sam had wanted me to come straight home. I should have dropped by anyway but I let my dick do the thinking last night. I'm sorry, House. I really am. But I'm here now, and I'm not going to abandon you again. We'll get through this together. You'll be okay."

House couldn't hold back his sobs, even though the last thing he wanted to do was cry, especially with an audience. He saw that his best friend's eyes were wet, too. When Wilson gingerly wrapped his arms around the diagnostician to hug him House didn't even try to fight it. He just allowed the younger man to hold him and comfort him and it felt so good. A thought occurred to him and he pulled back some so he could look at Wilson's face without breaking his embrace.

"Am I hallucinating you, too?" he whispered fearfully.

Wilson shook his head and smiled a sad but fond smile at him. "No. I'm real,"

House nodded, not completely convinced. There was no way he could be certain that this was reality or another delusion but for the moment he didn't care. He had his best friend holding him, and it felt good, it felt right, and if this was a hallucination, he didn't really want to know.

**(~*~)**

Wilson brought a tray with two steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup and sliced bread into the living room. There had been next to no food to be found in House's kitchen, only a few cans of soup, some peanut butter, breakfast cereal, about a pint of milk (on the shelf of the fridge, not in the door), and half of a loaf of multigrain bread. The only other consumable items were three full bottles and one partial bottle of Maker's Mark and a dusty bottle of crème de menthe that Wilson had left there about three years before. He set the tray down onto the coffee table next to an empty whiskey bottle and then handed one of the bowls and a spoon to House.

The diagnostician sat at one end of the sofa with his bad leg up on the coffee table. He still hadn't complained or shown signs of pain. House had been frighteningly quiet since the incident in the bathroom, looking shell shocked. He no longer was weeping or trembling; he looked like every ounce of self-confidence and spirit had left him and all that was left was a shell. He took the bowl without meeting Wilson's gaze.

Taking his own bowl of soup and a spoon in hand the oncologist then sat down next to House. He wasn't all the way at the opposite end of the sofa but kept a space between them large enough for a woman to sit comfortably. He began to eat, keeping an eye on House as he did. The older man just looked down at the soup with disinterest.

"You need to eat, House," Wilson told him encouragingly. "You have to keep up your strength."

House didn't move a muscle. After a moment he asked, "For what?"

It frightened Wilson to see his friend that despondent. It reminded him of a year ago, something he'd hoped he'd never have to witness again. He couldn't help but feel guilty; his conscience kept telling him that it was his fault that House was back in this state again. He'd told Dr. Nolan that House could stay with him as long as he needed to, because being alone would only make it more difficult for House to resist the urge to use again. He'd known it could be long term, even though he'd denied that when he'd asked House to move out of the loft because it appeased his guilt to do so. If he hadn't asked House to leave so the oncologist and his girlfriend/ex-wife could cohabitate in privacy, House probably wouldn't have returned to his apartment where he still had stashes of Vicodin hidden. He wouldn't have relapsed in desperation, and he wouldn't be delusional and hallucinating again. Had it been wrong for Wilson to want to pursue a life of his own and be happy? He didn't think so, but he'd been wrong to ask House to leave and to push him away like he had, and the way Sam had so vehemently objected to him checking on his best friend this morning had caused him wonder if she was actually the best choice to pursue that life and happiness with.

He truly didn't condemn House for relapsing. He'd been rejected not only by Lisa Cuddy but also by him. Wilson didn't understand why Cuddy had insisted House be out there in the rubble and ruin last night knowing that it would be terribly harmful to him. There were other doctors who had remained in the safety of the hospital that were able-bodied and much more capable of withstanding an environment like the crane collapse. He had been one of them.

Wilson sighed. He should have volunteered to go in House's place and allowed the diagnostician to remain back at PPTH. He hadn't because he'd had plans to take Sam out dancing last night and hadn't wanted to be stuck out in the elements all day first. Sam would have had a conniption if he'd returned too tired and sore to take her out. She'd planned it weeks ago, and didn't appreciate having to change her plans at the last minute…for _any_ reason. It was a trait of hers that Wilson really didn't care for. Oh, okay—he hated it, actually. She'd been that way when they had been married and it had caused him headaches when his job demands conflicted with hers. He hadn't been a department head back then. He'd just graduated from Medical School and was the bottom of the totem pole in his residency program. He couldn't just schedule himself days off and refuse to work weekends like he could now. Hell, he didn't even like using his authority to do that sort of thing now, although he'd found himself doing it more and more of late to appease Sam, usually. He hated being that kind of boss, but he hated arguing with her more.

He watched House set the bowl of soup down untouched. The older man looked over at him with soul-weary eyes. "So…," he said quietly, "what now?"

It was a good question. Last year his delusions had wound him up in Mayfield. If Cuddy and the hospital board learned that House had slipped, he would be out of his job. Yet, the man needed help. Wilson wanted to help him, but wasn't certain he was capable of it. He'd done one rotation in psychiatry during residency; that hardly qualified him to treat a psychotic man even if said man was his best friend. Still, he couldn't bring himself to suggest a return to the asylum. Wilson knew that having to return would probably hurt House more than it would help him.

Calling Nolan had been a consideration the oncologist had made and then quickly nixed. The psychiatrist would be obliged to notify the state medical board about it and House's license would be suspended again, possibly for good. If the diagnostician lost the right to practice medicine, he'd never survive. No, Wilson decided, he was partially responsible for House's relapse so he would take up the responsibility to help House without jeopardizing the older man's career if at all possible.

Last year House's psychotic episodes had stopped once the Vicodin had been purged from his body. So that's where they were going to start, Wilson decided. They would keep him off any further use of Vicodin, and it would probably be a good idea to keep him away from alcohol as well, at least for the time being. That was step one. Step two would be to have House arrange to take some of his accumulated vacation time now so he'd have time to clean up without drawing too much suspicion. Step three would be moving his best friend back into the loft where Wilson could keep closer tabs on him and he wouldn't feel as isolated and alone. The younger man knew that Sam would be anything but pleased when she found out, but that was too bad. The loft was Wilson's and House was Wilson's friend. He would move him back in if he wanted to and she had nothing to say about it.

"Earth to Wilson," House said flatly, trying to get his attention. Wilson snapped out of his private thoughts and regarded the older man with a smile.

"Sorry, House," he apologized. "I was just thinking about the answer to your question. What do we do now? Well, first of all we get rid of all the Vicodin and booze—all of it—and get you back onto the wagon. While we're doing that we call the hospital and use some of that vacation time you've accumulated to give you time to recuperate without Cuddy or the Hospital board snooping too deeply. We also move you back into the loft. There's no way I'm allowing you to stay here all alone. It's not safe."

"No," House objected quickly. "I'm not moving back in with you."

Wilson rolled his eyes and sighed. "I'm not taking no for an answer. It's either you move back to loft or I call Nolan and have you readmitted to Mayfield. I really don't want to take you back there, House."

"I won't live under the same roof as the Harpy," the diagnostician told him resolutely.

"Don't call her that!" Wilson objected. "And you don't have to hang with Sam. She works all day, so you won't have to be around her then and in the evenings I'll be home to run interference between the two of you. Isn't it better than going back to the hospital and possibly permanently losing your license to practice?"

"She'll hate you for allowing me to move back in," House told him. "I'll only cause trouble for the two of you and I meant it when I said I would stop interfering in your relationship."

Wilson couldn't help feeling the warmth that filled his chest. House had really meant it. He'd really cared enough about the younger man to back off in his attempts to break him and Sam up even though he still strongly believed that she was a mistake and would end up hurting Wilson again. That fact only made Wilson feel guiltier about asking House to move out in the first place.

"I know that," he told the older man with a nod. "And you won't be interfering. Sam's an intelligent, compassionate woman. I'm sure she'll understand the situation and be good with it."

For the first time in an hour House smirked at him. "How many Vicodin have _you_ taken today?"

"Very funny," Wilson retorted dryly. "Look, even if Sam doesn't like the idea of you moving back to the loft, that's too bad. It's my place and she doesn't have any say. House, you are my best friend, and I let you down. At least allow me to try to help you and make it up to you."

House's face and eyes hardened. "I don't want your pity or your guilt. If that's what is behind this than you can get the hell out of my apartment and leave me alone!"

Wilson felt his frustration rising. This was not going as well as he'd hoped. He had to make it clear to House that he wasn't doing this because of guilt, even though he did feel it. Nor was he doing this out of pity.

"I can't do that," Wilson told him firmly, his voice remaining quiet and level. "I won't desert you when you need me again. I'm not doing this out of pity or guilt!"

"Liar," House accused, scowling at him suspiciously.

Shaking his head the oncologist sighed and said, "I'm not lying. Look, I'll be honest. I do feel guilty about kicking you out of the loft and pushing you away so I could please Sam. It was selfish and stupid and I regret it. That being the case, I'm not moving you back in with me because of the guilt. I'm moving you back in for two reasons. One, because I promised to help you and allow you to stay with me for as long as you needed to and I broke that promise, so I intend on making amends for that. Two, and this is the main reason, I'm doing it because you are the most important person in the world to me and I care about you. I want to do everything I can to help you get back on your feet, healthy and of sound mind. I'm not bullshitting you here. Besides, I have a pathological need to be needed, remember? So really I'm doing this out of selfishness."

House looked away from Wilson again for a moment or two as he contemplated what his best friend had just told him. When he looked back he replied. "You're not a shrink."

"No, I'm not," Wilson agreed. "So I help you clean the drugs and booze out of your system and then you continue seeing Nolan for therapy. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, unless you feel you need to be honest with him about it. If you're clean again when you do tell him, he shouldn't have any reason to have to contact the state or Cuddy."

"This won't work," House insisted, shaking his head—but Wilson could see he was wearing him down.

"Maybe not," the younger man conceded. "But before we come to that conclusion, what can it hurt to at least try?"

House stared at him skeptically for a few more moments before exhaling loudly and shrugging.

"Fine," he said noncommittally. "We'll try it your way, for now. But if this fucks up your relationship with Sam, don't say I didn't warn you."

Wilson smiled a little. "I won't," he told him.

**(~*~)**

Together House and Wilson went through his apartment and the diagnostician revealed every hiding place he had left, and watched longingly as the oncologist dumped every last pill down the toilet and flushed them away. When the younger man then grabbed all of the booze and did the same thing with it House was not impressed and vociferously expressed the fact but it happened regardless. After that was done House called in to Human Resources and arranged to take two weeks of his vacation time effective immediately. He only had one hurdle; he had to get final approval from Cuddy.

Just the thought of her brought back full force the sadness and humiliation he felt for once again hallucinating a night of sex with her. It had seemed so real, but so had the last time. He felt hollow at the knowledge that she hadn't come to him to tell him that she loved him, because she didn't love him. She was still with Lucas, still engaged to be married, and he was still alone. Except he wasn't, well, not exactly. He had Wilson's friendship and concern back, which he was incredibly grateful for, but the oncologist was still sleeping with the harpy and House still didn't have a lover to keep him warm at night and to grow old with. It would only be a matter of time before Wilson grew tired of him again.

He wasn't overly distraught about not being with Cuddy, however. Not as much as he should have been. What was with that? When he'd hallucinated making love with her and waking up with her he had been elated to have her in his bed and in his arms. He'd felt happy and at peace for the first time in a very, very long time. He'd been certain that he loved her. He realized that the joy he'd felt had probably been the high from the Vicodin, but had his feeling of love for her been from the Vicodin as well? And had he really loved her—did he love her—as much as he'd thought?

Well, the fact that she hadn't really come to him and saved him from himself didn't endear her to him like it had when he'd believed his delusion was true. That meant that everything she'd said to him at the scene of the collapse had been true. She hadn't contradicted it. She hadn't even cared enough to call and check on him. She'd really washed her hands of him; she was really through with him. Her cruelty hadn't been a result of her frustration at the moment. She had intended every bit of it. Knowing that now made it difficult for him to recapture that feeling of love for her. It actually had the opposite effect.

And who had been the one to really care, to really show up and be there for him, albeit a little too late to protect him from himself but there all the same? Wilson. Wilson was there with him right now. Unless, of course, Wilson was just a figment of his sick mind too. There was always that possibility, except for one thing. He was still having visual hallucinations of Cuddy around the apartment but they no longer made sense for being there. Wilson's presence did make sense, and unlike Cuddy, he wasn't appearing and disappearing. House was about ninety per cent certain that Wilson was real. At least, he hoped so.

Wilson dialed Cuddy's direct line for him and then handed the phone to House. The older man was hesitant to go ahead with the call but Wilson was right there with him and wouldn't allow him to hang up. House sighed. Why had his friend picked now of all times to decide to stop being a doormat?

"Cuddy," she answered simply. Hearing her voice coming over the line from where she was in her office was nearly overwhelming for House, but he managed to hold himself together, reminding himself silently that she had _not_ been with him the night before.

"It's me," the diagnostician told her, forcing himself to keep his voice from quavering.

"House, what the hell is going on?" She responded coldly. "I just got a call from HR about you taking vacation time effective immediately. Are you for real?"

He smiled ironically. Was he for real? He had no idea what was real and what wasn't. He wasn't going to admit that to her, though.

"Completely," he told her. "I have it coming and I'm cashing in. Crawling around hell yesterday took a beating out of my leg. I need a couple of weeks to recuperate…and try to forget about what happened with Hannah," he threw in for good measure, except, it wasn't really a lie. Her face kept flashing before his eyes every so often. He only wished he could forget about her, and how he had failed. "Foreman and my team can handle finishing up with the crane operator and any other case that may come by. It's only two weeks."

"One week," Cuddy conceded, sounding all business. He voice now was so different from Hallucination Cuddy's voice when she'd told him she'd left Lucas, and she loved him. "That's all. No special privileges anymore, House, remember? I meant what I said. You're lucky I'm giving you one."

"No," House said firmly, raising his voice. He felt his resentment towards her returning from the day before. "I said two weeks, and that's what I'm taking. I'm not asking for special favors—I'm simply demanding what is rightfully mine as an employee of that hospital. I'm not taking no for an answer."

"House—" Cuddy began, her voice hard and threatening but he didn't wait for her to finish.

"I'll see you in two weeks," he told her and hung up. His whole body was shaking. He looked back up to Wilson, who had a look of admiration on his face.

"I'm impressed," he told the older man.

House didn't reply because he was too busy watching Hallucination Cuddy strip behind Wilson. His friend noticed his distraction and frowned.

"Are you seeing her again?" he asked simply.

House nodded, lowering his head and squeezing his eyes shut. "Yeah."

Wilson nodded sadly. "Let's get some of your stuff packed and get out of here, okay?"

House looked up again, opening his eyes. She was still there. He sighed and nodded.

"Okay."

**(~*~)**

They spent the next half an hour packing a couple of suitcases. Wilson tried to keep the mood light and tried to get House engaged in a philosophical debate about the absolutism of right and wrong but his friend just wasn't taking the bait. He wanted to get House talking, to keep him engaged so he didn't close up and withdraw into himself. That wouldn't help the situation at all. He knew he had to come up with something different and interesting, but what? It was then that he decided to pose to House a question that he had been asking himself and had been unable to answer.

"So," Wilson said as he neatly folded a pair of House's socks and handed them to him only to watch him toss them carelessly into the open suitcase.

"'A needle pulling thread'," House quipped without missing a beat.

Wilson couldn't help but smile at the quote. "I have a question I'd like to ask you," he told his older friend.

House shrugged, flinging one of his classic rock T's into the suitcase. "So ask."

"Why Cuddy?" Wilson inquired, tilting his head slightly and scrutinizing House's face. "Twice now you've hallucinated that it was Cuddy who saved you from yourself and then you made love to her. Is it because you _are_ still in love with her?"

There was about a minute of silence and just as Wilson was about to give up on expecting House to answer his question, he surprised him and did. "I don't know. I love her, I guess…I've always wanted to fuck her again, that's for certain. Actually, I don't think I am _in_ love with her. I guess…shit, this sounds gay, but I think I've been in love with the idea of being in love with her ever since you started pushing me at her."

"I never _pushed_ you at her," Wilson denied mildly. "I simply _encouraged_ you to see if you and she might—"

"—you _pushed_ me at her," House cut him off, staring at the younger man pointedly. "Boy, were you stupid! But then again, I'm the one who listened to you so I guess that makes me a total idiot to believe that she and I could ever make a relationship with each other work."

"Yeah, you're right," Wilson agreed reluctantly, perfectly folding a shirt and placing it in the suitcase himself so House didn't have the opportunity to mess it up. "But after the way she treated you this past year…it just doesn't make sense that you would hallucinate having sex with her."

House looked up at Wilson curiously, appearing to be trying to read his face and body language to determine where he was going with this.

"So who should I have hallucinated about?" the diagnostician asked him, smirking slightly. "_You_?"

Wilson could feel his cheeks burn as he blushed self-consciously but forced himself not to pay any attention to it. "Well," he responded, shrugging, "sure. Why not?"

House looked at him incredulously, apparently having difficulty hiding an amused smile. "So let me get this straight. You're disappointed that I didn't hallucinate that you showed up last night, stopped me from taking the Vicodin, told me that you were in love with me and then had incredible, mind-blowing sex with me? Is that what you're saying?" The smile escaped custody and slyly ended up on his lips to complement the suggestive wagging of his eyebrows. "Why Wilson, I had no idea you felt that way about me!"

"Knock it off!" the oncologist told him, trying hard to sound annoyed instead of flustered. He didn't want his best friend to know that he'd actually contemplated such scenarios in his mind—to quickly dispel them, of course. Instead of giving him the heebie-jeebies like it should have, the idea had the opposite effect on him. "I meant, uh…well, uh, about the stopping you from taking the Vicodin part, yeah. I mean, I _am_ your best friend and between Cuddy and I, I'm the one who's been there to rescue you much more than she has. Of course, I realize that my breasts aren't quite as appealing as hers."

"Don't count yourself short," House told him, straight-faced. "You have a lovely set of moobs developing there, really."

"Shut up," Wilson told him, glaring at him. "Forget I even asked, okay? Moobs. You're a fine one to talk!"

"Hey!" House responded, pointing his toothbrush at the younger man. "These are well developed and sculpted pectorals, not moobs"

"Uh huh," Wilson agreed wryly, "you just keep on telling yourself that. Denial in small doses never hurt anyone."

House tried to glare but only ended up chuckling a little. "_You're_ accusing _me _of being in denial? Aren't _you_ the pot calling the kettle black!"

"What are you talking about?" Wilson demanded a little too defensively. "I'm not in denial of anything ."

"Oh, _please_!" House retorted, rolling his eyes in disdain. "There's so much denial in that closet with you I'm amazed that you can still breathe!"

Wilson looked up at House in surprise. There was no longer any sign of teasing in House's expression. The diagnostician was looking at him with those scalpel sharp blue eyes that had the uncanny ability to look deep beneath a person's behavior to find the motives behind it. It was a talent that Wilson had often found more than a little disconcerting; with it House had caught him lying more times than he cared to remember. Was it possible he saw something that nobody else saw and the oncologist had only ever suspected?

They exchanged looks for a long time before Wilson looked away first. He zipped up the suitcase he'd finished packing and lifted it off the bed.

"I'll just take this down to my car," he muttered softly and quickly headed for the front door with it, turning his back to House's prying eyes. This conversation was getting a little out of control, and he was more than happy to be the one to end it.

**(End Chapter One)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:****Of Dreams and Nightmares (2/2)**

**Author:****pgrabia**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**Genre(s):**AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sick!House, Pre-Slash, Romance

**Character(s)/Pairing(s):**G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, S. Carr/ House/Wilson preslash, mention of House/Cuddy and Wilson/Sam

**Word Count:**5952

**Warnings: **Spoilers for all Seasons and episodes up to Season 7 episode 1.

**Rating: R(M)**

**Author's Notes:** A response to episode 7X1. It begins just after Wilson tries to break into House's apartment and House catches him. This will be a two-shot. This is assuming that House's hallucinations at the end of S. 5 were due solely to the Vicodin. I don't really think that's all there was to it but for the sake of this fic, that's the assumption.

**(~*~)**

House's luck wasn't getting any better. Not only had Hallucination Cuddy sat in the backseat of Wilson's car but she had been joined by Hallucination Hannah. The new arrival had appeared shortly after the car had left its parking spot on the street in front of House's apartment building. She had startled him, causing Wilson to look over at him from the driver's seat in concern.

"You didn't help me!" H. Hannah accused angrily. "I told you that I didn't want my leg to be cut off! You told me you wouldn't do that and then you changed your mind and sweet talked me into it. Now I'm dead. What kind of doctor are you?"

"A good one," House had murmured aloud unconvincingly. "It was beyond my control."

"What was that, House?" Wilson had asked him, "I didn't catch that."

House had sighed, shaking his head and turning his face to the side window. "I wasn't talking to you," he had answered quietly, but loudly enough for Wilson to hear.

"Oh," had been Wilson's response. He'd returned to his silent musing as he drove.

House couldn't blame him for being uncomfortable; what did one say when one's best friend told one that he was talking to hallucinations? Wilson had been surprisingly collected since discovering that House had used again and was back to hallucinations and delusions. Was it possible the Wilson in the car with him was also a hallucination, part of yet another complicated delusion?

Now they were nearing the loft and an additional dose of anxiety was added to that which House already felt. He had a pretty good idea what her reaction would be when Sam arrived in the evening to find him sitting on the sofa watching TV. He knew it wouldn't be pretty and he'd warned Wilson about that. He knew he should have fought giving in to Wilson's desire for him to move back into the loft, but truth be told he'd been more fearful of being alone with his demons than facing Sam's wrath. Still, he regretted the pain it was going to cause Wilson.

He rubbed his thigh absently. It was aching a little, meaning the Vicodin he couldn't remember taking was beginning to wear off. Just as he'd expected, the craving to take more to eliminate the worst of the pain again was much stronger than it had been for months. Even before he's slipped and his pain had been at its worst he'd craved the relief that came with the opiate but this was ten times worse. His body had instantly readjusted again to groaning for the drug again; a year of sobriety and hard work down the drain. Perhaps that was what bothered him the most: the fact that he had not only failed to save Hannah but had failed to save himself as well.

Wilson drove his car into its parking stall in the underground garage beneath the condo building and parked. He turned the car off and then looked sideways at House with a small, optimistic smile; the diagnostician could tell that it was forced but didn't point it out.

"Well, we're here."

"Obviously," House retorted dryly, meeting the brown-eyed gaze resting on him. "You still have time to change your mind. We can be at Mayfield in a little over an hour this time of day."

Shaking his head, Wilson told him, "I'm not going to change my mind. This is your home; it always has been. I was just too selfish to remember that."

House wished he could be convinced that his best friend meant that, but he wasn't. Still, he wasn't going to argue the point any further. Aside from the headache this was going to cause Wilson when Sam came home, House was almost looking forward to see how the harpy's reaction would play out. He hoped she showed her true colors, but he doubted it. She was shrewd and knew how to play the game. Besides, even if she did overreact House doubted it would even register in Wilson's thinking.

"It won't last," H. Cuddy told House from behind him. He could hear her sit forward in her seat and reach around the headrest of House's seat to run her fingers through his short graying hair. He could feel it; her fingers were solid and the circles they were creating brought real goosebumps to his skin. He had to mentally repeat to himself that she was a hallucination to keep himself from becoming lost in the delusion again. "He doesn't love you like I do. I can make all of your most sinful fantasies come true!"

_Of course she can_, House told himself. _She's a fantasy herself._ He started when he felt a hand on his forearm. He looked over to see Wilson as the owner of the hand and he was regarding House with a mixture of curiosity and worry.

"Let's get your things inside," he said to the diagnostician and then opened his door and climbed out of the car. House sighed and pulled his head out of H. Cuddy's reach. He grabbed the old spare cane he'd found in the back of his hall closet and climbed out of the car as well. Wilson had the truck open and the older man reached to grab one of the suitcases but before he could the younger man snatched them both up and headed without a word towards the elevator. House sighed and slammed the trunk lid shut before limping in pursuit.

**(~*~)**

The loft looked very much like it had before House had moved out but for a few feminine touches here and there: a floral throw and matching cushions, vases of lilies and roses in every room, the scent of lily-of-the-valley fabric deodorizer, and so forth. Boxes upon boxes stacked onto each other, each filled with stuff Sam had moved in and hadn't gone through yet, lined one entire wall. The bed had been stripped and pushed out of the way to accommodate an elliptical machine and a yoga/Pilates zone. The closet was also filled with Sam's stuff. Apparently she had wasted no time in trying to erase any evidence of House from the loft. Not that that surprised him in the least; he probably would have done the same thing if the tables had been reversed.

"Uh," Wilson said a little uncomfortably as he set the suitcases on the floor at the foot of the bed, "I hadn't been expecting you back so soon, so I haven't had a chance to get her junk out of here yet."

House noted the younger man's use of the work 'junk' when describing Sam's things and repressed a smile.

"No problem," House told him, sitting on the edge of the bare mattress. "All I need are a couple of drawers and some bedding. The rest can stay."

Wilson looked at him with mild surprise. "That's good of you House, but I won't have that. This stuff should have been put into storage anyway, especially the exercise equipment. Since she started going to a gym she doesn't even use it. I'll go get you some bedding and other linens. You look tired and could probably do with a nap. After that I'll move as much out of here as I can until I make other arrangements with a storage company."

House shrugged without any enthusiasm. If Wilson wanted to go to the bother, let him, the older man decided. It wasn't like he expected to be staying there for long. Once Sam's complaining pushed the younger man to the breaking point House would find himself out on his ass again. He wasn't even sure that he was going to bother with unpacking his suitcases. As for a nap, he agreed it sounded like a good idea; he felt like crap, his entire body was beginning to ache and the pain in his leg was getting worse. Perhaps in his sleep (if he could fall asleep) he could avoid the hallucinations for a while, too.

Before that, however, House grabbed a toiletry bag out of one of the suitcases and took the whole thing into the second bathroom, the same one that had been his bathroom once upon a time and would be his bathroom again as long as he was there. It looked almost exactly as it had the day he left only cleaner. As he unpacked his things he opened the doors to the vanity cabinet beneath the sink. His eye was drawn to a couple of small boxes that were partially hidden behind bottles of toilet bowl cleaner and tub and shower spray. They hadn't been there when he'd left. Curious, he grabbed them to take a look. He sighed when he saw what they were; one was an over-the-counter ovulation test and the other was a home pregnancy test. So they were considering having a baby. It was a bit of a surprise to him, considering the fact that Wilson had mentioned once that while he'd thought about having kids when he was younger, he was at the stage in his life where he wasn't all that interested anymore. There was also the fact that the boxes had been stored out of immediate view and were in this bathroom instead of the master bathroom.

House wondered if Wilson was even aware that these boxes existed or that Sam was thinking about becoming pregnant. Although he had promised Wilson that he wasn't going to interfere in his relationship, he believed Wilson should be aware of this. Perhaps the oncologist was, in which case it wasn't a problem (well, it was a big deal to House, but that didn't matter). But if she was doing this behind Wilson's back, then he felt the younger man had the right to know before he unwittingly fathered a child. If she got pregnant without his agreement Wilson would feel bound to her and the baby and that meant Sam would never get the boot. That prospect frightened House.

He considered how he could arrange it so Wilson would be sure to discover the tests on his own without it being obvious that House had fixed it. If Wilson knew House had set it up for him to find them, it wouldn't matter whether the younger man wanted a baby or not, he would be furious with him.

"Tell him you want to shower but it's a little dusty in the stall and you want to clean it out before you do," Wilson's voice said from behind him. House turned to see the oncologist behind him, only it couldn't have been really him. He'd never seen his friend wander around in a Speedo before, much less around the loft in one. It was a great look on him though. "Before you do, hide the tub and tile spray under the sink in the kitchen and then tell him there's no cleaner under the bathroom sink."

"He won't buy it," House told H. Wilson, knowing full well that it was just a hallucination but still a portion of his own mind reasoning things out. "I'd never offer to clean it myself. Besides, you're—I mean—he's anal about making certain the proper cleaner is its proper place at all times."

"If you play up the pain in your leg while you do it he will," was the hallucination's reply. "His need to be needed will win out, trust me. I should know. Make certain the boxes are placed so he can see right away what they contain."

Again the diagnostician shook his head. "No," he said, squinting in concentration, "I have a better idea."

H. Wilson's face suddenly lit up and then grinned deviously. "Of course!"

He began to walk towards House and the older man backed away from him until he met up with the vanity, effectively pinned between it and H. Wilson's nearly naked body. The hallucination pressed his body up against House's body and snaked his arms around his neck. He brought his face within a couple of inches as the older man's face and House could feel the younger man's moist, hot breath against his skin. How was it possible for this to seem so genuine? The mind truly was an amazing thing.

"But first," the hallucination said before pressing his lips against House's mouth and grinding his erection against House's flaccid cock. He began to harden despite himself. He tried to remind himself that this wasn't really Wilson but it felt so good and it seemed absolutely real. He found himself returning the kiss, wrapping his arms around H. Wilson's waist. The younger man tasted so good, felt so good….

House broke the kiss but not the embrace. He rested his forehead against H. Wilson's and looked down. He could see the head of the younger man's fully-erect dick poking up out of the Speedo, just begging to be touched, to be kissed. The diagnostician closed his eyes and swallowed thickly.

"This isn't real," House whispered, trying to remind himself of that. "It was so much safer when you were Cuddy," he told the hallucination.

H. Wilson smiled seductively, and traced House's lips with his finger, grinding his hard on against House's again. "But I'm so much more fun."

"Yes," House confessed breathlessly. It would be so easy to give in to the delusion, just for a little while—just long enough to make love to his best friend like he'd been dreaming of for years; but he wouldn't be making love to Wilson, but rather to a nightmare.

"No!" House said suddenly, pushing the illusion away. He couldn't do this. He couldn't submit to a fantasy. When it happened, if it ever happened, he wanted his first time with his best friend to be real, not like this.

H. Wilson sighed and shook his head before walking out of the bathroom passing through the door. The diagnostician didn't know whether to cry or scream.

He wouldn't have to fake the pain in his leg, at least.

House retrieved the bottle of cleaner out of the vanity cabinet and situated the tests just so. He limped to the door and opened it carefully before peering out. There was movement in the kitchen. House sighed and then backed back into the bathroom. He opened the cabinet doors and then sat himself down with his back to the wall opposite it, his legs sprawled out in from of him and his cane laid haplessly a few feet away from him. _And….action_! he said in his head.

**(~*~)**

Wilson chopped away at the carrots with his chef's knife. He wanted to make comfort food for House—Shepherds' Pie—for his first meal back at the loft. The older man was under a great deal of strain and doing the little things for him right now would, the oncologist hoped, help relax him. Soon he would be in agony and craving Vicodin and every little bit would help. Sam would complain about all of the carbs and fat, but that was too bad. He'd make a salad to go with the entrée and she could chomp on that if she didn't want to eat what he made.

He whistled softly as he cooked. He hadn't enjoyed preparing dinner this much in weeks.

"_Wil-lson_!" came the bloodcurdling scream from House's bathroom. The younger man jumped in shock and nearly sliced the tip of his index finger off with the knife. His heart seized in his chest in fear as House continued to call for him and scream hysterically. Wilson had never heard his friend scream that way, not even during the days right after the infarction. He dropped the knife onto the cutting board and sprinted towards the bathroom.

"House?" Wilson cried out as he ran and stopped short in the open door way. To his horror he found House on the floor, writhing and batting at himself in a frenzy, as if he was trying to kill and knock off a swarm of mosquitoes or something. There was nothing there, it was simply another hallucination. Wilson's stomach dropped and he felt nauseous, his heart aching for the older man. He slid on his knees to his side. House had a bottle of spray cleaner in his hand, and began spraying it at his body. He grabbed House's shoulders, fighting against the older man's thrashing. He tried to capture House's wild eyes with his own.

"Get them off!" House shrieked. "Get the roaches off!"

Wilson sighed. "House! There are _no_ cockroaches! It's another hallucination! House, they're not real!" He continued to repeat these things over and over until the diagnostician began to relax and then stopped thrashing and batting.

"They're not real?"

Shaking his head, Wilson smiled sadly. "No, they're not." He gently pried the spray bottle out of House's hand and then turned around to put the cleaner away when his eyes fell upon the boxes. He frowned and set the bottle down before picking them up and looking them over. The frown deepened.

"Fuck," House said softly, his voice shaking slightly. "I'm sor—they seemed so real."

"I know," Wilson said softly and then returned the boxes to the cabinet and shut the doors. He turned to face his friend. House's face was drawn and troubled. He looked so tired and defeated. Wilson wondered if he was capable of giving his friend the help he needed, but he had to at least try. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

"No it won't," House argued softly, avoiding Wilson's gaze. The oncologist helped House up to his feet. The man was trembling. Seeing the supposedly invincible Gregory House this way was nearly overwhelming for Wilson. He picked up House's cane and handed it to him.

"It will," Wilson assured him. "Look, why don't you change out of those wet clothes and take a shower to get all of that cleaner off your skin. Then take a nap before dinner. Doctor's orders."

The diagnostician nodded obediently.

"I'll bring you some towels and your robe," the younger man told him before leaving the room. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

**(~*~)**

House watched Wilson leave and then sighed wearily, reaching down to knead his hurting thigh; the ruined muscle was beginning to cramp up. He saw the boxes. _Mission accomplished_, House told himself. He felt a little guilty for deceiving his friend like that, but it had been necessary and was for said friend's own good.

Wilson returned quickly with the towels and robe and gave House a long look with chocolate brown eyes and fond smile before leaving again, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

Sighing wistfully, House started the water in the shower and undressed, hoping that no apparitions decided to join him.

**(~*~)**

House lay on top of the bedding on his bed, fully clothed except for his Nikes. His hands were laced together at the fingers and rested like a cradle underneath his head. He was exhausted, particularly after his long, hot-as-he-could-handle-it shower. The moist heat had helped ease some of the pain in his leg, but not enough to enable him to sleep.

He could feel every muscle, tendon and strand of sinew in his body ache a little from the exertion he'd put them under the day before but the pain from that was nothing compared to the pain in his ruined thigh or even his headache or stomach cramps. It was beginning—the withdrawal symptoms. He'd hoped that they wouldn't appear since he'd only taken five Vicodin tablets after a year of sobriety but his body and mind had simply reset to the default mode they had been in before his detox in Mayfield. One slip and he was going to suffer through that again. He hoped that the kicking wouldn't be as severe as back then. It wasn't just pain that was bothering him; the incredible craving for more of the painkiller was nearly driving him out of his skin. It took almost all of his will to remain still and on the bed. The anxiety he felt gradually increased until it was of the order he figured it would be if he were going to die if he didn't locate and take Vicodin right away.

He knew he should find Wilson and tell him how strong his anxiety and urges were and how bad the pain was becoming, but he didn't want to concern his friend and he had too much pride to admit yet another sign of weakness. He felt pathetic enough.

Since the incident in the second bathroom, Wilson had been very quiet and withdrawn and hadn't come to check on the diagnostician for over an hour. Perhaps it was because the younger man thought he was sleeping but he doubted it. In the past, whenever House had had a bad cold and Wilson had assumed the job of mothering him back to health, he'd check on the older man every half-an-hour to make certain he wasn't dying or something. Part of House was glad that he wasn't being pestered but another part realized that Wilson's distraction was probably due to the boxes he'd 'found' under the bathroom sink and House couldn't help but be a little concerned. He was convinced that Wilson hadn't known that Sam had those tests or the intention of becoming pregnant. Even if Wilson did want kids, he would be angry about her duplicity and not talking with him about it first.

House wondered if they were riding without a helmet, so to speak, and if she was off any form of birth control. Chances were very good that she was. He was angry at the thought of it, and his hatred of her only intensified. That conniving bitch! Perhaps this would be enough to open Wilson's eyes to the truth of who she really was under the sickeningly sweet act she put on when he was around her. If nothing else, he hoped it would lead to Wilson wearing a condom when they did it.

He screwed up his face in disgust, trying to get that mental image out of his head. A particularly strong spasm tightened his ruined thigh muscle to contract so tightly that he cried out involuntarily before he bit his lip and stifled himself. He thought nonstop about those little white pills. He knew he would never survive this without them, felt that down to the marrow of his bones. The pain would become so intense that he would die. He knew Wilson would be disappointed in him and that he would never regain his sanity but what good was sanity when one was dead? He slid across the bed to the right side edge of the mattress and reached his arm over the edge; he began to feel his way as he stuck his hand between the bed frame and the bed rails. There was a little ledge, and he began to run his hands along it back and forth, searching, searching….

The knock on the bedroom door caused House's hand to freeze just as his fingers found the frayed edge of the duct tape. Of course—he should have known that Wilson's super-human hearing for groans, whimpers and other sounds of neediness would hear his cry and sent him running. It was as endearing as it was aggravating.

"House? Are you alright? Do you need my help?" the oncologist called.

House sighed in exasperation and pulled his shaking hand out. He moved over toward the center of the bed again, gasping in pain with every movement of his leg.

"No!" House called back a little too quickly, startled by the strain he heard in his own voice.

Obviously his best friend wasn't convinced. He slowly opened the door and entered, warning, "If you're indecent you better cover up now."

Wilson took one look at House and moved quickly to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He began to feel House's face for a temperature.

"You're anything but okay," Wilson scolded him. "Why didn't you call for me?"

House just realized that he was breathing heavily and his heart was racing in his chest. "If I call for you—" he gasped as another spasm hit sending white hot pain coursing to his spine again, "—every time my leg hurt—ngnnn!—you'd be better off handcuffing yourself to…to me!"

"I'm going to go get that ibuprofen and you're going to take it—it can't hurt," the younger man told him, "and then I'm going to run a hot bath for you. While you're in it I'll call Chase and tell him to bring over Toradol, methocarbamol and Ativan. I'll tell him no questions."

"I thought I wasn't allowed—ahhhhhng—in your bathroom," House panted.

"Let's not get into that right now," Wilson told him, frowning. "I'll be right back." He jogged out of the room and was back with a minute with a glass of water and a full dose of the analgesic. He had to help House take them because the diagnostician's hands were shaking too much to hold the glass. Once they were down, Wilson left the room with the glass. House a few seconds later he could hear the sound of water pouring into the tub in the master bathroom. He knew he didn't have much time; he slid gingerly over to the edge of the bed again, reached down and found the spot immediately. His hand wrapped around the pill bottle and he yanked it off of the frame, hearing the tape tear away. Carefully his wriggled his fist out of the tight space and cursed as the pills inside the amber vial rattled with his shaking.

House's eyes shot back to the door, looking out for Wilson, then back to the Vicodin. He popped the lid off and spilled out a small pile onto his sweat-soaked chest. _Three_, he told himself, "_just three. No more. Three will do. _He struggled to pick up the tablets with his tremulous fingers but somehow he managed and held them in front of his eyes, staring at them like a starving man would look at a thick, juicy steak—

"No!" the diagnostician heard just before a hand slammed into his, sending the pills flying across the room. Wilson was practically on top of him and grabbed at House's wrists with a strength the older man hadn't known he possessed. "House, no. You can't!"

"I—I c-can't take the p-pain anymore!" House told him in a grieved voice. His eyes stung with tears but he didn't feel like crying. He felt like screaming. "I have to make it g-go away. I j-just want it all to g-go away!"

"Not this way, Greg," Wilson told him, shaking his head fervently. "This isn't the way. I don't want _you_ to go away! Now I'm going to let go. Don't try to take anymore. _Please_."

After a long moment House closed his eyes shut tightly and nodded. "Be q-quick about it," he warned.

He felt Wilson release the bruising grip he had on his wrists. House had the immediate thought that if he rolled right as soon as Wilson's weight was off of him he would fall off the bed but would bring the pills on his chest with him…. _No!_ he told himself angrily. Anger was good. Anger was strong and he needed to be strong. He beat this bitch once, he could beat her again. The pain would pass, Wilson would find a way. But the anxiety was so high….

"I'll die without them," he groaned, unable to hold back the words. His logical brain told him that he wouldn't, but the pain and withdrawal maddened part was screaming that he would.

Wilson was gathering up all of the pills and putting them into the vial again. House felt him moving quickly and even sneaking his hand underneath the diagnostician's body in search of strays. Wilson left the bed for a moment.

"House, just lie still," the younger man told him. "I'll be right back."

House gritted his teeth and clenched his fists until his knuckles were white and his fingernails gouged into his palms, but he didn't move. He was disgusted with himself and his weakness; he was in too much pain to feel ashamed but he knew that would come. The sound of a toilet flushing reached the spare room and then Wilson was back.

"House," he said, sounding fatigued. "Please look at me."

"I'm a f-fucking idiot," was the response between gasps and hisses. The older man's hands were kneading his thigh like it was tough dough.

"I had no idea your leg was hurting you so much," Wilson told him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's always been this bad," House told him through gritted teeth. "I did tell you, but you assumed I was exaggerating or that it was conversion disorder or you figured I was jonesing for a fix. Then you would lecture, so I stopped telling you." He opened his eyes and looked up at the oncologist, who knelt on the bed next to him, looking ashen-faced and mortified.

Wilson didn't say anything, but simply got off of the bed and went around standing on House's right side. He carefully helped a very weak House up to a sitting position and then wrapped one of the older man's arms over his shoulders.

"Y-you're going to hurt your back," House protested, his voice deep and gravelly.

"Not if you cooperate with me," Wilson told him. Somehow the oncologist managed to get House to his feet—or rather, foot—without hurting himself. House cursed foully from the pain caused by the jarring movement, but slowly they made it to the master bathroom. Wilson sat House down carefully onto the toilet and then checked the bath water. He let some out and added straight hot. Once he was satisfied he returned to House. House had already managed to remove his shirt and undo his jeans, going so far as to slide the waistline past his buttocks but he couldn't bend to remove them all the way. He looked away from Wilson in shame.

Saying nothing Wilson helped him remove his jeans and socks, leaving House in his boxer-briefs.

"Do you want to remain in your shorts or do you need help to remove them?" Wilson asked, not looking directly at House's face. House really wanted to curl up in a ball and die from humiliation. Yes, Wilson had helped him before, just after the infarction following Stacy's departure but that didn't mean he had no problems with it. He scoffed at himself. If he hadn't felt so damned helpless he would have been aroused at the thought of his best friend undressing him to nothing, but not now.

"I can do it," he mumbled. Nodding, Wilson stepped back and looked away as House managed to push his underwear past his buttocks and down to just before the knee. Taking his cue Wilson helped remove them completely, looking at the wall and using only his peripheral vision. He then helped House over to the tub and with some effort and a couple of false-starts managed to get him into the tub and lower him down into the water. The younger man kept his eyes trained on House's face now.

"How's the temperature?" he asked the diagnostician, panting lightly from the effort. "Too hot? Too Cold?"

"It's good," House told him and allowed himself to slide down until the water was up to his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to relax while the hot water worked on his leg and his nerves.

"Just don't fall asleep," Wilson cautioned him. "I'll be in my bedroom if you need anything. Just yell."

House nodded, too weak to talk. He heard Wilson walk out of the room and then heard the door as it made contact with the door latch but it didn't click, meaning Wilson left it open just a tad, just in case he had to make another mad dash to House's side.

Already House could feel the muscles in his leg relaxing, easing the pain somewhat. He exhaled in relief. He knew he would never be able to repay his best friend for all of this.

**(~*~)**

Wilson helped House out of the tub, aided him in drying off and then handed him his robe. From the way the muscles in House's face and neck appeared to be more relaxed, he knew that the pain level must have dropped to a more tolerable level. He helped House back to his room and then left him for a few moments when the older man insisted he could put on his own pajamas "like a big boy."

Chase arrived with the medications, asking all sorts of questions which Wilson promised to answer another day before kicking the intensivist out. He took the meds to House's room and knocked on the door with a knuckle.

"Okay," House said from the other side of the door, "you can come in if you want."

Wilson stepped into the room to find House lying on top of the bedding again with just a pair of flannel pajama pants on. He had his back against the headboard with his legs stretched out . Wilson retrieved a heating pad and wrapped House's thigh in it before plugging it in and adjusting the heat setting to low. He then found his medical bag and took out a wrapped, sterile syringe. With it he injected House with the Toradol and the muscle relaxant and then gave him an Ativan tablet to put under his tongue. He took the meds and his bag away and came right back.

"Come sit down," House told him quietly, frowning. "You're making me nervous just standing there and staring at me."

The younger man surprised his friend by moving around to the other side of the bed and matching his pose, leaving about two inches of space between them. House didn't mind the proximity at all, the oncologist noted, but then again, House didn't understand the concept of personal space unless he was the one demanding it.

It was the first time all day he'd had the chance to just get off of his feet and relax, and he was glad he could do it with House beside him. Wilson had missed the older man a lot—perhaps too much for 'just a friend'. He stared at House, his eyes appraising his face and then his well toned chest with its smattering of chestnut and grey hair, and all the way down to his long feet. For some reason he wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was checking him out, and for the first time he wasn't embarrassed by the fact that he felt himself respond a little as he appreciated his friend's form. He'd always thought that the diagnostician was handsome in a careless, scruffy, devil-may-care kind of way. However now, he couldn't get over just how attractive he was, which was odd, considering that the man was in obvious discomfort. Wilson returned his eyes to House's face where they were met by his azure eyes. They gleamed with a hint of amusement and something else, something that reminded the oncologist of the red hot embers that remained after a bonfire burned itself out.

"Like what you see?" House asked him with a little smirk but no cynicism in his voice. It was an electrically-charged question. Wilson searched his face for any sign of mockery but couldn't find any.

Wilson blushed a little, and diverted his gaze. He cleared his throat and hoped that House didn't notice that he was hardening beneath his slacks. "I was just thinking that I…I missed having you around."

"You have Sam," House told him, still staring at him piercingly.

Shrugging Wilson said softly, "It's not the same." He hesitantly met House's gaze again, feeling drawn into it.

It was House's turn to look away, "Why are you doing this, Wilson?"

It was a fair question, Wilson admitted, but there was no easy answer to it and he wasn't entirely sure why himself. "When I found you this morning, I didn't pity you but…you're going to laugh at this but…I hurt for you. It hurt me to see you struggling like this knowing that I let you down—and don't say I didn't because I know I did."

"I wasn't about to argue with you," House said seriously. "But you have a right to find happiness wherever you can find it. I have no right to stand in your way like I was. Even though I hate her and I don't trust her, she makes you happy. I, on the other hand, hurt you. Logically you made the right choice."

Wilson shook his head slowly to that. "But…I'm _not_ happy."

House frowned but said nothing, apparently waiting for the younger man to explain, so he did.

"Oh, I was at first," he admitted. "I was looking for someone to save me from myself, I guess you could say, and Sam…well, she was convenient. I knew that I would never love her again like I did the first time but I thought if I could love her just a little bit I could make it work. I was scared what would happen if I failed."

"What were you scared of?" House asked, appearing to be fascinated by what he was hearing.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably. This was getting real, and intense, and he was pleading with himself to shut up and go out to the living room to wait for Sam. That's exactly why he forced himself to stay, to man up. He couldn't run from this forever, even though he desperately wanted to.

"Of doing something that I would regret later and probably cause you to never speak to me again," the oncologist told him, his voice shaking a little. He looked down at his hands resting in his lap, finding it easier to open up when he wasn't looking at House. "With the two of us living together after you returned from Mayfield last year, it became nearly impossible to hide. When I bought the organ for you I realized that you were beginning to put two and two together. Damnit, House, I didn't want Sam! She was an escape route!"

House shook his head in confusion. "What are you talking about, Wilson?"

Wilson exhaled in exasperation and rolled his eyes, amazed at how a genius like House could be so dense sometimes. "I rushed into things with Sam because I was falling in love with _you_! There, I said it, it's out. _I'm_ out. If you want to beat the shit out of me go ahead and get it out of your system!"

He couldn't face his best friend, he felt so ashamed, so he turned his face away and bit on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from sobbing. He was expecting the eruption any second where House would curse him out, call him every foul name he knew and order him out of the room and out of his life. When a few seconds passed and nothing had happened he slowly turned his head to venture a look. The moment his face was visible to the diagnostician he raised both long-fingered hands up to Wilson's face and held it gently, his eyes scrutinizing it carefully. His hands were trembling along with the rest of his body. Wilson sat perfectly still, having no idea what was going on and hoping that whatever it was it didn't involve violence.

"House," Wilson asked cautiously, "what are you doing?"

"Are you real?" was the fearfully whispered question, "Or are you just a hallucination?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm real," Wilson answered, feeling his mouth go dry. "Test me. Ask me a question that I would have no idea of knowing. If I'm your imagination, I should know the answer."

A genuine smile cracked House's face. "Only the real you would come up with such a stupid suggestion. All I would have to do is somehow make my hallucination not know the answer…you know what? Fuck it."

Before Wilson could react he felt House pull his head closer as he leaned in and kissed him gently. It was brief but hit Wilson like a bolt of lightning. House drew away far enough to search Wilson's face questioningly, trying to determine what the oncologist's response was.

Wilson smiled and lifted his hand, placing it at the House's nape and pulling him back into another kiss. This time it was just as gentle but deeper, with more passion and emotion being poured into it from both parties. Wilson ran his tongue along the older man's bottom lip and House moaned ever so softly, parting his mouth and allowing Wilson's tongue to enter and caress and explore every tooth, taste bud, and ridge on the top of his mouth. The younger man's other hand came to rest on House's chest as it gently rubbed circles over the hair and flesh. It was House's turn to explore Wilson's mouth for a while. The oncologist knew this was the luckiest break he'd ever—

"_James? Oh my fucking god!_"

Both men jumped at the sudden and unexpected cry of dismay that came from the open doorway. Wilson broke the kiss and turned to see Sam standing there with her mouth wide open and her eyes practically bugging out of her head. She appeared to be frozen in place, locked in her horror. Wilson sighed and his hand went immediately to the muscles at the base of his head. He glanced at House to see him staring at her with amused, sparkling blue eyes and a smug smile on his face.

"Hi, Sam!" House practically chirped with glee. "Welcome home!"

She unfroze then, sputtering and scowling hatefully at him before storming off to the master bedroom and slamming the door shut behind her.

Wilson looked at House, who was still grinning from ear to ear in satisfaction in spite of the fact he looked green around the gills and he was still obviously in pain.

"I couldn't have planned that better if I'd tried," he told the younger man, shrugging. "Oh well, look at the bright side, Wilson. At least this way, you can skip the confession and go straight to the break-up."

Wilson gave him a withering glare but he couldn't hold it for long. A smile broke out on his face just before he started chuckling ruefully. House chuckled too, weakly, then winced and grabbed his thigh.

"You okay?" Wilson asked anxiously.

"Will you stop that?" House retorted, annoyed. "Now get in there and kick her out on her ass. And try to keep the screaming down—I have a splitting headache!"

The oncologist raised both hands in a gesture of surrender and then headed towards his bedroom.

**(~*~)**

House laid under several layers of blankets; his sweats had shifted to the chills. He couldn't sleep because of the headache and stomach cramping, although, his leg had settled down to a dull growl. The withdrawal symptoms hadn't worsened as the night progressed but they hadn't calmed any, either. He knew that he could endure this and then stay sober again. He mentally shook his head in rue as he replayed the past two days over in his mind. So many changes had taken place in such a short period of time.

While House ordinarily hated change, he welcomed the ones that had brought him back to the loft and sent Sam packing in a murderous rage. He'd actually been afraid she would do something to hurt Wilson—and then him—but she'd had brains enough to realize that it just wasn't worth two first-degree murder raps and had left instead. For the rest of the evening Wilson had tried to get House to eat some of the shepherd's pie he'd made for him but the diagnostician's stomach had been too upset, opting for ginger ale instead. Wilson camped out in the spare room with House and talked about Sam's confession that she'd been trying since the day she moved in with him to get pregnant, defending her actions by saying that if she'd asked _him_ if he wanted to start a family he would have said no just out of habit. The diagnostician saw only one hallucination all evening but when asked he'd refused to tell his best friend who it was because it only would have upset him. Wilson surprisingly left it at that, probably because he had a good idea who it had been that House saw.

House lifted his head and looked at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock/radio. It was well past two. He sighed. Slowly and with too much effort he pushed back the blankets, sat up and then found his cane and used it to rise unsteadily to his feet.

"Damned muscle relaxants," he muttered and he slowly limped out of the room and headed towards Wilson's. Despite their kissing earlier, Wilson and House had parted ways at bedtime, more out of exhaustion and force of habit than anything. House was about to remedy that mistake. It was more like he hopped than limped to Wilson's door and turned the knob, finding it unlocked. He slowly opened it and limped inside as quietly as he could. Pale moonlight streamed in the window and fell across Wilson's face as he slept. House stood there with almost all of his weight on his left leg and simply watched him for several minutes. Never had House expected Wilson to be the one to make the first move, but when he thought about it he was glad that he had. This way House knew for certain Wilson loved him and wasn't just saying it because he didn't want to upset the older man while he was in such a 'fragile' state. Not that House would exactly say those three words to Wilson's face. He preferred putting his actions where his mouth was.

Gingerly House resumed his approach to the bed. He'd heard the oncologist stripping the bed and putting on new sheets earlier, for which the diagnostician was very thankful, for now he didn't have to sleep on the same sheets the harpy had the night before. House carefully pulled the blankets back and then eased himself onto the bed as gracefully as a cripple could. He pulled the blankets back over him and found a comfortable position. He wanted to wrap his arms around Wilson and hold him as he drifted off to sleep but didn't want to awaken or startle him so he contented himself with having him close enough to touch if he needed to.

House was just about asleep when he felt some movement behind him and then a body pressed up against him with an arm wrapping around his waist. House figured that in his sleep Wilson was mistaking him for Sam. That thought bothered him until he heard something being whispered into his ear.

"What took you so long?" Wilson asked him, his lips brushing House's ear. "Good night, House." Those lips laid a kiss on the patch of skin just below and behind the ear.

Wilson laid back down, continuing to hold the older man from behind. House smiled, sighed, and drifted off to sleep.

**~fin~**


End file.
